


You've got a friend in me

by longnationalnightmare



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dirty Talk, Dubious Consent, Feminization, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:40:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26590777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/longnationalnightmare/pseuds/longnationalnightmare
Summary: It takes a while for Penny to realize that Quentin’s acting weird, because Quentin’s pretty muchalwaysacting weird.
Relationships: William "Penny" Adiyodi/Quentin Coldwater
Comments: 16
Kudos: 131





	You've got a friend in me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [drunktuesdays](https://archiveofourown.org/users/drunktuesdays/gifts).



> i wrote this i guess a few years ago at this point for drunktuesdays for her birthday, and then i never posted it anywhere, so this is like-- ex-fandom dead stock. just found it in the warehouse, like new condition. i believe it takes place in some nebulous au of season ? 3? sure....where quentin and penny are being chased around by fairies during a magic outage. not really important. un-beta'd so all weird sex descriptions are unfortunately my own. see notes @ end re: consent ish

It takes a while for Penny to realize that Quentin’s acting weird, because Quentin’s pretty much _always_ acting weird. The guy has no chill. And anyway, Penny has, like, actual shit to worry about, since they’re alone in the woods with fritzy magic and probably a hoard of fucking fae on their tail, so, whatever—he’s not paying much attention to Quentin, thanks, which is his preferred state of being, until Quentin says faintly, from a few feet back, “I don’t feel good,” in a slow, confused tone.

“Are you a fucking three-year-old?” Penny asks disgustedly. He’s searching the woods ahead for some sign of the path. “Nut up.”

“Uh. I don’t...”

“Coldwater, I swear to God,” Penny says; but when he turns around, Quentin really _doesn’t_ look good. His cheeks are fever-flushed and his forehead is faintly sheened with sweat. He’s stopped walking completely—he’s just standing in the center of the clearing they’re passing through, swaying unsteadily, blinking and blinking his big, unfocused eyes. “Jesus Christ,” Penny says. He drops his bag. “What the fuck? I’ve been with you the whole fucking time.”

“Yeah,” Quentin says vaguely.

“Are you gonna puke? If you gotta puke, don’t try and hold it in. I’m gonna make fun of you either way.”

“Uh,” Quentin says. His own bag slides off his shoulder and thumps onto the ground, tipping sideways. An apple rolls out across the ground. Quentin doesn’t seem to notice. “I’m not gonna. Puke.”

“If you have to—”

“I _don’t_ ,” Quentin says, voice cracking. “I think. Uh.”

“What. Is. Wrong with you.”

“Uh—”

“Words,” Penny says. “Use your words, dumbass.”

“I just feel,” Quentin says, and then, cutting himself off, takes a deep breath—lets it out with a strange, shaky moan—which is around the time Penny’s eyes cut down and he realizes—

“Holy shit, do you have a _boner_?”

“Um,” Quentin says miserably. His hands are clenched up at his sides.

He does. He fucking _does._ One thing about Fillory’s fucking love affair with linen: you can spot a hard-on from a mile away, whether you want to or not. The drape of Quentin’s pants has been completely ruined by the line of his dick, and as Penny gapes disbelievingly at the sight, Quentin’s hand moves to—”Coldwater, you can _not_ be serious—” cup it, which makes him groan again, and hunch forward a little, palming himself through the fabric. “What the hell are you _on_ right now?”

“What?” Quentin says.

Penny can see his thumb moving right at the head of his cock. He’s gotta get—brain bleach. He’s gotta learn how to give himself amnesia. He’s gonna give himself amnesia if it’s the last thing he does. “What are you _on_?” he says again. “You’re on drugs—right? You’re on drugs? Who gave you drugs? Eliot,” he says flatly.

“I didn’t take anything,” Quentin says haltingly.

“Eliot,” Penny repeats, “and fucking Margo—”

“I haven’t seen them for—”

“Well—”

“—weeks—”

“You tell them—”

“Penny—” Quentin says, in a stupid, pleading tone that—shit—goes right to _Penny’s_ dick.

“—the next time they wanna dope you up on shit you can’t handle, do it when _they’re_ around to deal with the consequences—”

“It _hurts_ ,” Quentin practically wails, and shoves a hand into his pants.

Penny is having, he thinks in dim disbelief, a terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad day. He’s probably gonna get like—beheaded by a fairy in about an hour, and that _still_ won’t be worse than what’s happening right now.

“What,” he starts, and stops. “Okay, moron, I get it—you get high, you get horny. I still haven’t managed to forget the time you tried to fingerfuck my mouth on Forbidden Forest shrooms, and trust me, I’ve tried. But this is—”

“Penny—”

“— _seriously_ not the time—”

“— _please—_ ”

“Please _what_?” Penny snaps. “Take your hand out of your pants.”

Quentin doesn’t.

“What?” Penny says again. “What the fuck is going _on_ with you,” which—oh.

Right.

Penny has a way to check.

“Just—Jesus Christ. This is for your own fucking good,” Penny says, as close to apologetic as he’s willing to venture, and takes a run at Quentin’s wards.

A run, it turns out, wasn’t really necessary. Quentin’s defenses give way like thin paper, and he doesn’t even yelp in protest, which would’ve been enough to make Penny sure something’s really wrong even if Quentin’s brain didn’t feel malarial: fever-hot and foggy. There’s barely a single sensical thought to be found, except—a deep, throbbing baseline beneath the chaos— _fuck me fuck me please fuck me I need it fuck me—_

“You are,” Penny says, eyes flying open, “ _such_ a sick fuckin’ puppy right now—”

_please please please please please—_

“Coldwater, put your _fucking_ wards back up,” Penny says, even though—

“...My what?”

—yeah. That’s pretty much what he fucking thought.

“Dude,” Penny says, “you are on, like—the nastiest fucking cocktail of roofies I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen some fucked up shit in my life. What did you fucking—touch? Or—eat? Did you eat something?”

No response. Quentin’s staring at Penny’s mouth.

“Hey,” Penny tries, “my eyes are up here.”

Quentin swallows convulsively. He’s red all the way down his neck now, the flush disappearing into his ugly tunic.

“Probably ate something,” Penny says. “Dumb motherfucker.”

Penny isn’t unfamiliar with what a horny brain usually feels like. He spent most of his life unable to control his powers, or teach anyone how to ward themselves against him—he’s slipped into more than one girl’s head while she was panting and squirming on his dick. It’s never once felt anything like what’s happening to Quentin right now. Quentin’s brain is….it’s messed _up_. Penny thinks it might genuinely be overheating. When he probes forward again, tries to concentrate, he can barely find any of Quentin inside the psychotic hurricane of need, _fuck me fuck me please I need it please please please—_

“Fuck,” Penny says, and blinks. Quentin’s fisting his dick inside his pants, hunched forward. His face is pained. Penny’s pretty sure he’s still in there somewhere but—faint. Incredibly faint, and frighteningly inaccessible. Whatever’s ripping through him right now, it isn’t gonna recede until it— _I hate this day,_ Penny thinks grimly—gets what it wants.

“Your boyfriend is gonna kill me,” Penny says, then: “ _Try_ to kill me.” He could take Eliot in a fight, easy. “‘He’s not my boyfriend,’” he fills in meanly when Quentin doesn’t say anything, but Quentin doesn’t even seem to register the taunt. “Fuck.”

“Uh—”

“Shut _up_ ,” Penny says. “If I have to listen to you talk while we—okay. Fuck. Okay, just—you’ve gotta be _fucking kidding me_.” He doesn’t wait for Quentin to dumbly _uh_ again—just strides forward until he’s close enough to grab Quentin’s chin. “Okay. Okay.” He can feel his wheels spinning, which he _hates_. Better just to—“We’re gonna fuck,” he says grimly. “I’m gonna fuck you. And if that doesn’t fix this, I swear to God, I’m gonna abandon you in this forest because _one_ of us is making it out of this alive, and if you think I won’t lie about what happened here, you can think again.”

Quentin’s chin jerks in Penny’s grip.

“Except—right,” Penny said. “You can’t think at all right now.” When he shifts, he realizes that he’s even harder than he was before, dick fattening up at the sight of Quentin’s pink tongue darting out to wet his lower lip, at Quentin’s big, dark pupils and his breath coming fast.

One of the unfortunate things about the world always almost ending…

Quentin jerks his chin again. His hand is still moving in his pants; he’s trying to shift closer to Penny.

“Chill,” Penny snaps. “Give a guy one fucking second.”

It’s been awhile—a disturbingly long while—since Penny got laid.

Which is ridiculous and unfair not least because every time Penny turns around, Quentin’s tripping dick-first into someone new, and he’s never once done anything to deserve it. He spends ninety percent of his time blinking uselessly and the other ten percent whining. Penny can’t begin to understand which part of that equation has women across the multiverse creaming themselves for a crack at him.

Still, no matter how little Penny’s brain understands Quentin’s appeal, his dick is hard up. It’s not acting too picky. And since it doesn’t seem like either of them has a choice—

“Blow me,” Penny says abruptly, and lets go of Quentin’s chin, reaching for his shoulder to press him down. It’s an unnecessarily aggressive impulse: Quentin’s falling to his knees before Penny’s even managed to get a grip on him, grunting when he hits the ground and nuzzling forward immediately to rub his cheek against the bulge of Penny’s cock. “Shit,” Penny says, and flexes his fingers on Quentin’s shoulder. “Is this what you need?”

“Yeah,” Quentin says. His voice is distant and dreamy.

“Sure,” Penny says. He sighs, mostly to try and distract himself—ineffectively—from how good it feels when Quentin mouths at Penny’s cock through the fabric of his pants, already too out of it, apparently, to focus on getting them _off_. Penny’s, like, a pretty normal guy: so what, he started getting hard the second his dick sensed an opportunity to get some, and he’s been getting harder by the second ever since. And Quentin breathing hotly on his dick, too fucking dumb right now even to get it out—that’s working for him. Quentin’s palming Penny’s thighs, groping around to grab his ass. He looks like, if Penny didn’t help him, he’d keep doing it for an hour—forever—licking and sucking and grabbing, no concept of how to get closer, how to have more. “Hey, moron,” Penny says, and shoves him off for just long enough to unlace his pants and kick them off.

For a second, he feels fucking dumb: half-naked in a forest, dick bobbing up against his stupid tunic, bare-assed for any nearby talking animal to see, and laugh at. It’s _just_ a second, though. That’s how long it takes for Quentin to surge forward again and suck Penny’s cock clumsily into his mouth.

Quentin has no idea what he’s doing, which is surprising mostly because Penny really _had_ assumed he and Eliot….huh. “Hey,” Penny snaps when Quentin’s teeth graze his cockhead. “No teeth—are you listening?”

Quentin isn’t. He’s trying to take Penny deeper, making little noises low in his throat as he sinks forward.

“ _Hey_ ,” Penny snaps again, louder. He gets a hand in Quentin’s hair and pulls him off. Quentin’s face is red. His eyes are huge with want—well, want and incomprehension. He barely seems to know where he is. “If you bite my dick, I’ll kill you,” Penny tells him. “Understand?” No reaction: Quentin just keeps gaping up at him, his mouth wet and pink. “If you even come _close_ to biting my dick,” Penny tries, “I won’t let you suck it anymore, and I won’t shove it in your desperate little ass either. Get it?”

That _does_ work, Quentin nodding so frantically, tugging forward as if asking permission to prove himself, that Penny snorts and releases him, then groans when Quentin sinks right back onto his cock: no hesitation, and no teeth, just tight, wet heat, the soft little flicker of Quentin’s tongue. “Yeah,” Penny says, threading his fingers back through Quentin’s here. “That’s—better. Moron can learn, huh?”

Quentin isn’t good at giving head, but he’s enthusiastic—well, desperate—well, there’s nothing he’d rather be doing, anyway, even if that is just because he doesn’t have two brain cells to rub together at the moment. He drools a lot, and doesn’t seem to know what to do with his hands aside from groping up Penny’s sides and, at some point, reaching down to get a hand on his own dick again. It’s not artful, but it is wet and hot and crazy, right out in the open like this, which is enough to amp Penny up pretty quickly.

“Is this gonna do it?” Penny asks after a minute. He could come fast if he wanted—nut across Quentin’s face, just so he’ll have something satisfying to visualize in future when Quentin’s running his stupid mouth, refusing to shut up. _I shut you up at least_ once _,_ he’ll be able to think. Quentin doesn’t respond, though, just keeps bobbing clumsily on Penny’s dick, trying to take him deeper. Penny lets it slide for a minute, flexing his fingers against Quentin’s head, holding his head down a little, which he seems to like. If this is all they have to do—easy.

When Penny glances down, he can see Quentin fisting himself in his pants. “Having fun?” he asks. No answer. He really could get used to this. “God,” he says, cupping the back of Quentin’s skull. “I can’t believe you’ve actually never done this before,” he tells Quentin, almost conversationally, stroking a heavy thumb across Quentin’s cheek,. “Eliot’s a dumb motherfucker if he doesn’t know he could shove you onto your knees any time he wants. Do you have any idea what a slut you look like right now?”

Quentin does react to that. He chokes on Penny’s cock, so startling that Penny drags him off again, in case he really _does_ lose control and take a fucking bite.

“Liked that?” Penny asks dryly. Quentin’s eyes are glassy with tears that haven’t quite fallen yet. He’s still coughing. It takes Penny a minute to realize that he’s tugged his hand out of his pants, and that it’s glistening a little in the sunlight. “Shit,” Penny says. “Already?”

“Can you,” Quentin says. His voice is raspy. “Please—”

“What?”

“Please,” Quentin says, and strains forward—when Penny releases him, though, he doesn’t even try to get his mouth around Penny’s dick again, just rubs his cheek against Penny’s thigh. It’s feverishly hot.

“You really are gonna make me fuck you,” Penny says. When Quentin groans, Penny sighs and shoves Quentin back again, strips his shirt off and clambers down to meet Quentin on the ground.

Getting Quentin’s clothes off is a mess. He’s not cooperative; not _un_ cooperative, either, just too turned-on and doped-up to help at all. His arms get tangled in his shirt when Penny tries to shove it off. “You’re the one who wants this,” Penny growls, trying to hold him still long enough to free his arms up, even though he knows _want_ isn’t the word exactly.

By the time Penny’s wrangled Quentin’s clothes off, it’s been long enough that his dick is aching. Penny wonders a little if whatever’s wrong with Quentin is contagious: he isn’t _completely_ brainless, sure, but he must be losing his mind at least a little to feel this interested, suddenly, in getting inside Quentin Coldwater—in fucking Quentin Coldwater’s dumb, needy ass.

Laid out in front of Penny, Quentin is so red—red all over—and desperate, eyes big, cock is dripping all over his spunked-up stomach, still furiously hard even though he’s creamed himself once already from _nothing_ , just the feeling of Penny’s cock in his mouth, from Penny saying shit that’s just—true. It’s just—a lot. It _is_. Penny’s gonna fuck Quentin so hard he cries, gonna ream him until it hurts, watch him keep wanting it anyway. “You want it?” he says. He rubs a hand through the mess on Quentin’s stomach and slicks his cock up with it. “You asked for it—”

“Yeah—”

“—need it, so bad, need me—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Quentin says convulsively, and that’s so good—his stupid, sock-it-to-me tone—that Penny goes ahead and gives it to him—braces a hand against his chest and fucks in.

Quentin shouts when Penny starts to sink forward, and keeps shouting as he slides home, not going fast but not going easy either. _You asked for it_ , he thinks again, and shakes his head. Quentin’s ass is tight and clinging. His hands are scrabbling at the dirt, clenched up, and his face is raw and startled, like even his fixated fever brain couldn’t actually prepare him for the feeling of getting fucked open. “Yeah?” Penny says dumbly, bottoming out and jerking a little, buried in Quentin’s ass, watching his face spasm, before pulling back and giving it to him again. “Good?”

“Shit,” Quentin says, and then his head is thunking back against the ground, he’s saying, “yeah,” again, again, hips canting up for Penny because he likes it—needs it.

“Jesus,” Penny says, “why can’t you be like this all the time?”

“Like—”

“Easy,” Penny says, and keeps giving it to him. “You done this before?”

Quentin doesn’t answer. All the tension’s gone out of his body; every time Penny slams into him, he jerks like it’s a surprise—like it’s the first thrust all over again.

“Hey,” Penny says, dragging Quentin closer and reaching up to tap his cheek, a little sharper than he meant to. “C’mon, have you?”

“—No,” Quentin says. He’s way too gone to look embarrassed about it. His eyes are unfocused.

“Crazy,” Penny says, pulling all the way out and resting his cock against Quentin’s hole until Quentin starts to squirm, locks his legs around Penny’s back and drags him back in. “Easy, but still fucking needy. Shocker.”

Fucking Quentin is—good. Really good. He keeps clenching up on Penny, like he almost can’t believe what’s happening. Penny’s fucked girls in the ass before—this doesn’t feel much different. It does _really_ even feel much different than a tight cunt, slick and hot and clinging, except that he can see Quentin’s cock slapping against his stomach, angry red. It’s—something, though, seeing that, even—the evidence of just how into this Quentin is. And Quentin has tight, pink nipples, too, that remind Penny so much of a girl’s—hard little buds, all knotted up with want—that he doesn’t even stop himself from falling across Quentin’s body, still thrusting, and sucking one into his mouth. It’s small and soft on his tongue, and once he’s sucking it, he doesn’t wanna stop. He doesn’t wanna be gentle, either. He takes it between his teeth, bites down, just a little at first and then harder when he can feel Quentin tensing up beneath him, arching into it.

“Like that?” Penny says, pulling off. He can feel Quentin’s cock trapped between them. He snaps his hips—fucks in harder, deeper—and because he’s still there, bites Quentin’s other nipple, rubs his cheek across it—then scrapes his teeth across his pec, too. It’s not much different than a tit—its little swell. Quentin, Penny thinks, would be much less fucking annoying if he _were_ a girl, and if, when he said stupid things, or whined or made dumb decisions, Penny could press him up against a wall, get down on his knees and lick his pretty cunt until it was sopping wet—fuck him from behind, cupping his tits, hard and rough and murmuring close to his ear, saying—anything he wanted. Quentin trapped against the wall, breathing hard, taking it. That would be nice—

Beneath Penny, Quentin jerks suddenly, makes a guttural noise. When Penny levers himself back up on one arm and peers down at him, there’s a fresh flush across the bridge of his nose and—when Penny’s eyes drop a little further—a new slick smear across his stomach. There’s a little pearl of come at the tip of his dick.

“Jesus, again?” Penny says. “Is that it, yet?” But he can tell already that Quentin’s still gone. He barely seems to have noticed his own orgasm. He’s still just moving with Penny’s thrusts, his body taking whatever Penny gives it. “I’m gonna keep fucking you,” Penny says. “Okay?”

Quentin groans; good enough for Penny. He settles back a little, gets ahold of Quentin’s thighs and hauls him close, then starts to fuck him in earnest again. If he stops to think, he knows that he’s sweating from the heat and the exertion, his face wet with it; and that his knees hurt, something digging into one of them, the bare, rough ground wearing at both of them as he thrusts. But he doesn’t stop to think too much. It’s easy to tune it out.

“More,” Quentin says breathlessly after a minute. Penny’s been fucking him slow and easy, figuring he could use the break, but—fine. If Quentin doesn’t wanna be babied, Penny’s the last guy who’s gonna try and gentle him against his will. He speeds up his thrusts. “Can you,” Quentin says, and squirms. For a moment, he almost looks like normal Quentin again: whiny and unbearable. It makes it downright _easy_ to fuck him harder, _mean_ hard, almost. “I need more,” Quentin says, looking up at Penny with dark, stupid eyes.

“There’s only fucking one of me, buddy,” Penny says through gritted teeth, snapping his hips.

Quentin groans. His eyelids flutter shut.

“Jesus,” Penny says, almost wonderingly. “Is this in you all the time, or—? Well, sorry. Unless you wanna wait for the fucking eerie alien mushroom freaks to show up, I don’t have another dick handy.” He drags Quentin close again, though, and falls forward across him. He hasn’t, he thinks sourly, had a good night’s sleep for weeks—months, maybe—and barely a square meal for the past few days, either—but sure. Why not expend his energy making sure Quentin feels like he’s getting the fuck he deserves. That seems right. “What,” he says after a moment. There’s sweat dripping into his eyes; he ducks his head, scrubs his face across Quentin’s chest, still moving inside him, then bites the meat of his shoulder for good measure. “You wish your boyfriend were here?”

Quentin moans; he trails his hand up Penny’s arm, a strange, restless motion.

“He’s gonna be so mad when I tell him,” Penny says. Quentin jerks under him, ass clenching up. “And I _am_ gonna tell him.”

“O—oh,” Quentin says. “Uh—”

“This is _way_ more embarrassing for you than me,” Penny says. “And it’s just,” fully seated and grinding as Quentin squirms and whimpers, “too fucking rich not to—shit—let him know that I got there first. It’s not like he didn’t have the _chance_.” Somewhere nearby, a bird trills. “If he _was_ here,” Penny says, low, close to Quentin’s ear. “ _Maybe_ I’d let him have your mouth. Your ass, though?” Thoughtlessly, he turns his face into Quentin’s neck, bites idly at the thin skin of his throat, then raises his head again. “I’m using it,” he murmurs, and when Quentin tightens up on his cock, Penny shocks himself by coming abruptly, so hard it feels like he gets knocked out of his own body. For a moment, he’s the bird on the branch above, peering quizzically down at the strange scene in the clearing: his own lanky body braced across Quentin, his knees splayed, his teeth bared at the junction of Quentin’s neck and shoulder. His hips still moving.

And then he’s just—back. He’s himself again, shuddery and oversensitive, still buried in Quentin’s ass.

Quentin starts to cry when Penny pulls out.

Even _Penny_ feels shocked about that, and there are a lot of things that wouldn’t shock him now the way they might have an hour ago.

“Hey,” Penny says, startled, and then, when Quentin locks his legs behind Penny’s back, trying to hold him in, “ _H_ _ey_ —Coldwater, cut it out—”

“I need—”

“Come on,” Penny says, “you’ve gotta—I can’t,” he says, shoving at Quentin’s legs until Quentin shudders a little and lets him go. When he manages to slip out of Quentin’s body, Quentin’s hole gapes and flutters. _Don’t give me that_ , Penny wants to say, nonsensically, but he glances up at Quentin’s face again instead, at how screwed-up and miserable it is. “How can you _possibly_ need more,” he says tiredly, but when Quentin just keeps looking crazed and stupid, he sighs and gets a hand around Quentin’s dick, jacks it twice, quickly, ignoring the way Quentin chokes at the touch, before sliding his hand back and rubbing right into Quentin’s hole, right where his cock just was.

“You’re a freak,” Penny says, crooking his fingers inside Quentin’s ass. He’s all wet and loose, so loose it’s almost sounding reasonable, suddenly, for him to need another dick, to need two at once. It feels like he could take a fist right now. “Come on, jerk yourself off—”

Quentin grunts. His hand is flat on his stomach; he’s not even touching his cock.

“I’m not fucking kidding,” Penny says, twisting his fingers, rubbing at the hot inside of Quentin’s hole. “We don’t have all day.”

“I can’t,” Quentin says. His voice is raw and reedy. “I can’t, it hurts—”

“Wow,” Penny says, and pulls his fingers out, so quickly that Quentin cries out and lifts his head with a weak, kittenish noise, blinking his eyes open. “Watch me not give a shit, idiot. Can you _think_ straight?”

“Um,” Quentin says.

“Is that what you’re saying?” Penny asks, relentless. “You’re all better? You can stand up now and we can get going again?”

“Um,” Quentin says again, more helplessly. His hips are hitching. When Penny glances down, his hole is clenching and clenching, his whole body begging even if his brain is still offline. It’s not the kind of thing Penny had ever thought about before, and he’s pretty sure he won’t wanna think about it after this either, but right now, the way Quentin looks—sweaty and fucked-out and desperate—is enough to make him wish he _could_ get hard again, work the guy over for another hour or so. Only—they don’t fucking _have_ another hour—

“Fuck it,” Penny says, “fine,” and scoots back abruptly; bends to suck Quentin’s angry red cock into his mouth.

Quentin doesn’t have any control at all. He makes a strangled sound and fucks up convulsively, even as his hand is scrabbling at Penny’s shoulder, trying to shove him off, like he doesn’t know if it feels good or bad. “I can’t,” he keeps saying, “I can’t, I can’t,” but he’s _gonna—_ Penny’s pretty sure he has to. He shakes Quentin’s hand off, pins him to the ground, and keeps blowing him, taking him so deep he wants to gag. No fucking _time_ for that. He braces himself against the sensation and pulls off a little, sucking extra hard on the sensitive head of Quentin’s dick. Quentin is crying, whole-body shaking: deep, strange sobs.

“What’s it gonna take,” Penny asks breathlessly, raising his head.

“I can’t.”

“I’m gonna slap you if you say that again,” Penny tells him. Quentin shudders. _Sicko_ , Penny thinks, a little appreciatively, and licks the wet tip of Quentin’s cock. Why not. He’s here. “You have to come. Okay?”

“I—”

“Coldwater—”

“If you,” Quentin says. The words are slow and effortful. “Gimme your fingers again.”

“See?” Penny says. “We’re having fun.” He wraps his mouth back around Quentin’s pretty dick—God, he’s gonna need shock therapy after this—and reaches back to stroke a finger across his hole again. It’s all puffed up with over-use, fat and hot to the touch, and Penny can’t even really rub at it without his finger sinking right in: that’s how loose and slick he is.

Quentin’s body is tense—Penny can feel that where he’s pinning him down—but his hole is still greedy, begging for it. Penny’s in him up to the knuckle before he registers it, even, humming around Quentin’s cock as Quentin squirms, practically vibrating. “Chill,” Penny says, pulling off his cock again and working another finger into him. “Come on, you gotta give it to me.”

Quentin doesn’t protest. That’s progress. His body feels like a live-wire.

“Come on,” Penny says again, kissing the head of Quentin’s cock, clocking the minute feeling of his body jerking a millimeter closer to the edge. “Just give it to me already. I’m being, like—so fucking patient with you.”

“Yeah—”

“If you don’t come again,” Penny says—he gives up on the blowjob and gets a hand around Quentin’s dick, fast, tightening his grip and ignoring the way Quentin arches and groans—“your stupid fucking brain is gonna explode and dribble out your stupid fucking ears—”

“Uh—”

“—and I’ll have to explain that to Eliot, and I don’t _wanna_ explain that to Eliot, asshole, so—”

“I’m close,” Quentin slurs.

“—yeah, I know, jackass. Come on.” Penny tightens his grip and slides his fist up Quentin’s cock. “Come on. Come for me. Come on my fingers already—”

It’s almost a surprise, after all that, when Quentin actually does, flinging an arm across his face and making an inhuman sound as his cock jerks and tries to shoot off. There’s nothing left _to_ shoot. All that comes out is a weak, painful dribble, even though Quentin’s body stays clenched up for a long moment after, his eyes screwed shut, his ass tight on Penny’s fingers.

“Okay,” Penny says finally, after Quentin’s stopped shuddering. He isn’t much in the mood to be gentle—he pulls his fingers out without bothering to give warning, wipes them off on his thigh as he stares down at Quentin. “That do it?”

Quentin takes a deep breath. His Adam’s apple bobs. Slowly, he moves his arm off his face and opens his eyes. “Uh—”

“If I never hear you say ‘uh’ again, it’ll be too fucking soon. Say one full fucking sentence.”

“...oh my god,” Quentin says, and covers his face again.

“Good enough for me,” Penny says, and staggers to his feet, glancing cursorily around the clearing. No one in sight, not that it means anything much in Fillory. There could be a whole crowd of invisible fucking—centaurs or whatever—gathered round, having enjoyed the whole fucking show. Or—fairies.

The fucking _fairies_.

“Hey,” Penny snaps. He kicks Quentin’s pants onto his come-striped chest. “C’mon. You’re in there, now, right?”

“...Yes,” Quentin says, voice muffled.

“Great. Let’s go, then.”

Quentin makes a strangled noise.

“You owe me like—a million dollars if we get through this alive,” Penny tells him flatly. “Clean _up_. We gotta _leave_.”

Penny tugs his own clothes on without glancing at Quentin again; by the time he’s dressed, Quentin’s gotten to his feet and tugged his pants on. He’s staring down at his chest with a faintly bewildered expression, which—isn’t unfair. Penny’ll grant him that. He looks gross—well—hot gross—kinda _good job_ gross, if Penny’s honest, mentally high fiving himself as he surveys Quentin’s sore little nipples, the bruises blooming across his pecs, the sticky sheen of come across his stomach. Still—”It’s not rocket science,” Penny says. “Just put the fucking shirt on. It goes over your head.”

“It’s gonna get all—fuck,” Quentin says, and wads it up with a shrug, scrubbing his chest off ineffectually before tugging the shirt on. “I’m having,” he says, “a terrible, horrible, no-good, _very_ bad day.”

“Join the club,” Penny says. Quentin winces. Fuck. He’s probably dripping down his leg. _Down, boy_ , Penny tells his cock when it stirs a little. _Walk it off._

The sun’s moved a little in the sky. By Penny’s guess, they’ve lost a little less than an hour. Could be okay.

“Okay,” Penny says. “We gotta go fast now.”

“Fine,” Quentin says.

“And don’t touch anything.”

“Yeah.”

“Or eat—”

“I get it,” Quentin says, clipped, and takes a few steps across the clearing to his bag. He’s walking funny. There’s no way he’s gonna be able to stop thinking about this for even a second today. He’s gonna be reminded every time he moves.

“Hey, Coldwater,” Penny says, swinging his bag onto his back.

“Yeah,” Quentin says. His head is bent; he’s fiddling determinedly with the strap of his own bag. “I know, hurry the fuck up, I heard you—”

“Nah, not that,” Penny says. He watches with a little thrum of smug pleasure as Quentin freezes and then, trying badly to be blank-faced, glances up. “You owe me one,” Penny says when he has Quentin’s full attention; and the speed at which Quentin reddens again is so gratifying that Penny’s whistling to himself for a full hour after, doom and gloom and the fucking fairies be damned.

**Author's Note:**

> this is pretty standard sex pollen dubcon in that one character can't really consent bc he's on, how to put it, "big time brain drugs" and the other character makes a call that they have to have sex anyway, basically for safety reasons. ultimately everyone feels/will feel fine, if somewhat embarrassed, about what transpires in these woods.


End file.
